


Je suis heureux à l’idée de ce nouveau destin

by TheLifeOfEmm



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Chefs, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Baking, Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Meanwhile Javert is NOT a baker, Post-Seine, Valjean is a chef, but he's doing his best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:47:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26856943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLifeOfEmm/pseuds/TheLifeOfEmm
Summary: Cooking, Javert has learned, is a science. It has established steps and rules, which when followed will consistently result in something edible. Baking, on the other hand, is an arcane art the likes of which he does not expect to ever understand.-A domestic follow-up toLe festin est sur mon chemin
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 5
Kudos: 38





	Je suis heureux à l’idée de ce nouveau destin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [howbadcanmyficsbe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/howbadcanmyficsbe/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Le festin est sur mon chemin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24898306) by [howbadcanmyficsbe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/howbadcanmyficsbe/pseuds/howbadcanmyficsbe). 



> Happy birthday, Em!!! This is just a soft little thing for you, I hope you like it! Many thanks to Claire for helping me brainstorm/answering my string of questions about chef au canon. <3

Cooking, Javert has learned, is a science. It has established steps and rules, which when followed will consistently result in something edible. Baking, on the other hand, is an arcane art the likes of which he does not expect to ever understand. 

It is making a fool of him once again as the man stands in the kitchen of the apartment he shares with Valjean, flour dusting his black slacks and flecks of batter dotted across every adjacent surface. So, what, was he expected to _know_ how to use a stand mixer? In his day, you grabbed a spoon and made do. But Valjean had only just that week purchased one of the contraptions, fire engine red and extravagant in its number of attachments, so here he is, standing over... a mess.

With a long-suffering sigh, Javert runs his hands through his hair, pulling it out of its ponytail and combing it back again with his fingers. The humidity is turning it into a tangle of frizz, no matter his best attempts to tame it; there is no taming August in New Orleans.

With a stretch and a yawn, Javert paces around the island, moving through the doorway into the living room beyond. It is small, but it is bright and cheerful, with Valjean’s comfortable loveseat in front of the fireplace and the old leather armchair which Javert favors. The windows admit the slightest bit of breeze with the sound of the street traffic; he pauses near the hearth and lets the fresh air move over him.

On the mantlepiece stands a photo, one of several, but it is Javert’s favorite. His fingers trace over the thrifted frame lightly as he gazes at it, a picture from their honeymoon. Valjean keeps hundreds of them on his phone, a study made in the takeout boxes from all the best French cuisine; the Paris skyline; the meandering Seine. But this one, printed inexpertly off of Javert’s office computer, is special—it was taken not in Paris but in Digne, on a weekend trip to the countryside.

In the picture, he and Valjean stand in front of a church, the image snapped by some convenient passerby. Javert always looks awkward in photos; he does not know how to smile for a camera, having never had much occasion to practice. But Valjean—Valjean is radiant. The dimples on his cheeks stretch in frozen laughter, and Javert stares at the crinkles around his husband’s eyes until his heart feels fit to burst. He would do anything to make Valjean happy; even wrestle unsuccessfully with a chocolate gateau. 

Returning the frame to its place, Javert marches back into the kitchen determinedly. If he entered The Lark wearing such an expression, the kitchen staff would leap out of his way in fright; but Javert is alone, and his fearsome glare is much less effective on a misbehaving KitchenAid appliance. It sits innocently on the counter where he left it, a bowl full of buttermilk and eggs and cocoa powder. And yet, the instant he turns it on, Javert suspects it will return to flinging ingredients all over the countertop. He should have just bought a boxed cake mix.

In the stare-down contest between man and machine, Javert at last concedes defeat. The user manual is in a drawer next to the sink, and Javert reaches for it sheepishly. A few minutes of studied reading reveal his problem at once—he has not turned the lever that will raise the bowl to the proper height to contain the splatter. In a matter of moments, he has it operational, whisking the wet ingredients into the dry. Rotating between recipe and reality, Javert unceremoniously dumps a cup of fresh coffee into the batter. Then, he turns the wretched thing off again, and begins spooning chocolate into floured pans.

Putting two pans of cake into the oven is perhaps the most nerve wracking thing Javert has ever done. He wants it to be perfect—it has to be perfect. He sets the timer and paces the apartment anxiously, asking himself again and again why he had to make _this_ his present. Valjean would have been entirely happy with a new cookbook, like the one Javert bought him last year, or a new flowerpot for their balcony. But the truth is, Valjean pours all his love into cooking for others, and Javert can think of no better way to demonstrate his affections than by trying to do the same.

The key word, it turns out, is ‘trying’; the timer dings enthusiastically, and an incongruous pit of dread forms in Javert’s stomach. He’s done it wrong, he knows he has, and time is running out until Valjean comes upstairs for his break before the dinner rush. Opening the oven slowly, Javert braces himself for the worst and takes a look.

It isn’t unsalvageable. That is the first thought to run through his mind as Javert stares at the pair of springform pans. The cake has risen unevenly, slumped on one side and climbing out of its bounds on the other, but he can fix it. Even so, Javert wonders as he removes them from the oven who ever said baking was relaxing; he can feel his blood pressure rising by the minute.

Hastily, Javert pops the cakes out of the springforms and takes a knife to the top, trying to slice them down to even size. He is only somewhat successful, but the icing will hide the less attractive cuts. Or at least that is what Javert tells himself as he whips the chocolate frosting out of the refrigerator. A glance at the clock tells him what he already knows—Valjean will be here any minute. He frosts the cake quickly if inexpertly, trying with desperation to smooth it into something presentable before dropping a couple of raspberries on top. 

The whole attempt is embarrassing; as if he, Javert, could ever cook anything worthy of Valjean’s talent! He turns his back just long enough to pull two plates out of the cabinet, but by the time he looks around again, there is a new problem: in his haste to finish, he has not allowed the cake to cool, and now the icing is sliding slowly off of it in a mudslide of chocolate. 

“Oh f—” Javert begins, but that is when he hears the key in the door.

In a flurry of panic, Javert shoves every dirty dish into the sink. The cake goes into the freezer—anything to stop it melting further—and he barely has time to turn around and plaster a smile on his face before Valjean enters.

“Hey,” Valjean smiles, dropping his apron on the counter. “How was your day?” He looks a little closer and his expression shifts to concern. “Are you feeling alright? Your face is all flushed.”

“Oh,” Javert says, and reaches for a cooking magazine to fan himself. “Just the heat. I turned the A/C off for a few hours—no point in driving the utilities through the roof when it’s only me home.”

Valjean gives him that look which Javert knows too well, one simultaneously chastising and amused, and wanders over to the thermostat. “Dinner?” he calls as he fiddled with the controls. “I have an hour before I have to get back. There’s a bottle of red in the fridge—maybe ravioli?”

“Sure,” Javert calls back with all the nonchalance he can muster. “Dinner.”

Hastily, Javert finishes washing up his mess. By the time Valjean returns, dressed in a fresh shirt and his hair combed, the evidence is dealt with and a pot of boiling water sits innocuously on the stove.

“How was your day?” Javert murmurs, pecking his husband on the cheek.

“Mmm,” Valjean hums. “Very good. That reporter stopped by, the one who is doing the article for The Advocate, and he said...”

Javert listens with one ear, nodding along and answering when it is required of him, but even as they sit down to eat, part of his mind is still on the cake in the freezer. He has to restrain himself from staring at it, or else Valjean’s suspicions will surely be raised. He must be doing an even worse job of it than he thought, because they are scarcely halfway through the main course when Valjean turns to him and asks, “Are you certain you’re alright? You seem... distracted.”

Javert swallows thickly. The ravioli is very good—of course it is, for Valjean buys only fresh and makes the sauce from scratch—and it serves to remind him of how entirely inadequate his own contribution to the table is. Taking a steadying sip of wine, Javert wets his lips and says, “I have something for you, but it’s... well.” He meets Valjean’s eyes then, a touch sheepishly. “You recall how I tried to make those cookies Cosette likes last month, and mistook the salt jar for the sugar? It’s not _quite_ that bad.”

Valjean blinks at him in surprise. “You baked something?” 

Getting to his feet, Javert grumbles, “Tried to, anyway. Damn stand mixer nearly took my arm off.”

He strides over to the freezer grimly, a man about to rip a bandage from a wound, and removes the gateau. Somehow it looks even worse cold than it did when it was still in the process of melting—the frosting has puddled around the base of the cake, now solidified into a topography of lumpy chocolate and half-drowned raspberries. It is unlikely that the time spent in the icebox has done anything for the texture, either. Javert turns back to Valjean with a grimace.

“I should have just ordered a cake from Rouses,” he says, shaking his head as he brings it back to the table. “God knows, you deserve better than this, but -” He sets the platter down in front of Valjean with a nervous gesture. “- it’s a chocolate gateau. Supposed to be. Might remind you of one.”

“Javert...” Valjean turns in his chair to look up at him, and the sentiment shining in his eyes is nearly too much. “What is this for?” 

Taking a deep breath, Javert explains, “Five years ago today, you signed the papers on this place.”

Valjean’s eyes widen. “Is that today?” he asks. “I haven’t even looked at the date.”

“And that night,” Javert continues, “you... kissed me, for the first time.”

Valjean chuckles at the memory. “Your face,” he murmurs. “I thought you might faint then and there.”

“It was a near thing,” Javert says, beginning to laugh in spite of himself. “I guess I just... I know it isn’t our real anniversary, but I wanted to commemorate it somehow.”

“This was incredibly thoughtful,” Valjean says wistfully, turning back to the cake. “Should I try a piece?”

“It’s probably terrible,” Javert warns him, going to fetch the dessert plates he set out. “I don’t even know if it baked all the way through.”

“You’re too hard on yourself,” Valjean replies as he returns. He cuts a slice and lays it on a plate; at least that way, it looks almost appetizing. “I am sure it will be lovely.”

Forking a neat little square of cake and frosting, Valjean raises the morsel to his lips. Javert crosses his arms and tries not to look too anxious, probably failing. Valjean chews and swallows slowly, his eyes shut as he considers his husband’s haphazard creation. When he opens them again, there is still a smile on his face.

With studied nonchalance, Javert asks, “How is it?” He adds, “Tell me honestly,” as Valjean starts to speak, and the man visibly swallows whatever blithe reassurance leapt immediately to his tongue.

“A little dense,” Valjean admits. “I would try to turn the pans midway through baking next time. But the flavor is wonderful, and it stayed very moist.”

He takes another bite, and Javert slowly lowers himself into the chair at Valjean’s side. “Not terrible?” he confirms, a little doubtfully.

Valjean huffs affectionately. “Not by a long shot.” Reaching across the table, he takes Javert’s hand and presses a kiss to the back of his knuckles. “It is more than I could have asked for.” And Javert hears the words which Valjean does not say: _“You are more than I could have asked for.”_ Valjean hands him a slice of cake, and in truth it really is not so bad; perhaps there is hope for his baking skills after all. 

Soon, Valjean shall to return to the restaurant and Javert will sit back at his desk, until at last they tumble into bed together to sleep through the night. But for now, there is chocolate and raspberries, the low susurrus of happy voices, and the clasp of hand on steady hand. Above all, there is love. It plays through Javert’s heart like the distant strains of jazz on a New Orleans street corner, like the smoothness of icing melting on the tongue. 

As it fills his chest, as Javert looks into Valjean’s eyes, he thinks of how far they have both come to be sitting here. No amount of perfectly crafted chocolate gateaux will ever suffice to express what Valjean means to him. But perhaps it is the wine which has Javert feeling unusually sentimental, or perhaps he is just getting old—it strikes him that there is something oddly fitting about a cake which is misshapen, imperfect, yet still able to bring a smile to Valjean’s face. In the end, he could want for nothing more than that.


End file.
